


Touching Scars

by Esteliel



Series: Tell Night From Day [5]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Comeplay, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He pressed his fingers to that beloved mouth to silence him, still not quite certain how to heal this thing between them. Was there healing for such a thing? It was no wound, but a scar they had touched upon. They would bear their scars until the end of their lives, that much he knew. Perhaps he had been at fault, to assume that Javert's fears were caused by the events that had made him seek escape in death, when now he saw that these scars went much deeper.</i>
</p>
<p>Javert's desk blowjob fantasy finally comes true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touching Scars

Even though it had become habit by now to wake with the warmth of Javert's body next to him, Valjean never allowed such a morning to pass without voicing his gratitude and love in a silent prayer before he opened his eyes. Today was no different, and when he carefully sat up, and saw that Javert, for once, was still asleep, unroused by the motion, he reached out to rest a hand on his head, and allowed himself the pleasure of gently stroking graying hair uncharacteristically tousled from his sleep.

The sight brought with it a soft pang of regret. It had been a week since Javert had returned home with him from the Seine once more, a week in which they had shared affection, and closeness, but not more than that: never more than the occasional, lingering kiss. Valjean did not want for affection – but woven into it was now a carefulness that was new, and reminded him of how things had been between them at first, after he had forced Javert to live, and while this thing between them had slowly grown while they had not yet known what to do with it.

But those days were long over, and he thought that what was between them now was no longer the ghost of the past, but a ghost of Javert's own making. Perhaps he had pressed him too much, perhaps...

Valjean pulled back his hand to rub it over his heating face. Ah, how could he have asked for such a thing? Even now he could not think of it without flushing. Even now he could not bear to look at Javert and think of what they had shared, what it had been like to be bound and blindfolded, to hang trembling and helpless in darkness while Javert opened him and filled him until he had done the impossible: until he had been stretched open so wide, until Javert's hand had penetrated him so deeply, that he no longer knew where his body began or ended. Of those moments, he remembered nothing but the pressure and the stretch and the ecstasy of this impossible violation of his body that had somehow pulled him free from the confines of his flesh until he was nothing but pure, overwhelmed pleasure and devotion hanging trembling and completely open in the darkness, giving himself to the man he loved, whose presence within was without beginning and without end, like roots that had spread through his body so that at last, they were one in the flesh as they already were in the soul.

But then, something had driven Javert from his side, and though he had returned at last, this was no longer the Javert who had learned to open himself to Valjean in joy, and accept Valjean's own trust and devotion with gratitude. Were they forever damned to circle each other, too wary of the scars they bore to ever be able to surrender to what they felt without the pain of opening old wounds?

Perhaps he had been selfish, Valjean thought as he stood at last with silent regret for the lost moment of intimacy that right now had no place between them. Javert had confessed to him what shameful desires his thoughts had lingered on at times in the past. Javert had been ashamed, but Valjean had been overwhelmed by that confession, and the great trust that had been placed in him. But none of those thoughts had revealed a desire to see _Valjean_ shamed and helpless, and he should not have asked such a thing of Javert. He should have known that even after this time, Javert had never truly forgiven himself. Even now, Javert judged himself too harshly. Valjean sighed, and pulled off his nightshirt to wash himself at the basin. At the sound of the blanket rustling behind him, he froze for a moment before he calmly continued to wet the cloth and draw it over himself, well aware of the effect such a sight once used to have on Javert. Perhaps today, at last, this would be what would break through Javert's strange hesitancy around him... 

As always, Javert followed his own rhythm. 

Valjean could never quite make sense of it, but after he had taken Javert into his home that first time, Javert had recovered in fits and spurts. One day, he had been silent and near hostile, only to reach some conclusion by the next, and calmly ask Valjean to stay by his bedside for an hour in the afternoon, and discuss the psalms Valjean had read him.

In this, Javert still seemed unchanged. His heart followed its own inscrutable rhythm, and it was not until they were seated next to each other that afternoon, a book on Valjean's lap, and the curtains drawn wide to let in the sunlight, that Javert suddenly straightened, and turned towards him, and rested a determined hand on his knee.

“I should not have left,” he began abruptly, as if the week during which they had not talked of what had come to pass had never happened. “You must have been very upset. I should not have left without word, and I am very sorry for that. I will not do such a thing again.”

Valjean nodded slowly, and closed his book again. Javert's hand still rested on his knee, and after a moment, he dared to reach out and take it. Javert did not resist, and he breathed a soft sigh of relief as he held his hand between his own.

“I was very worried for you,” he admitted at last. “But Javert, that is behind us. I forgive you. I asked something of you that upset you, and that was thoughtless of me as well.”

“No, no,” Javert said and shook his head, nearly pulled his hand away in sudden agitation, but then sat still again. “No, that is not – it was not that you upset me. I had no right to be upset. Ah, how can I make you see? You already told me that it was what you wanted, but how can you want it from me? You see, even if I accept that, even if by some miracle, your forgiveness is indeed so great that you can ask such a thing of me, and trust me, and never remember who I once was – even then, I still know myself. When your trust is at its greatest, Valjean, that is when it cuts the deepest.”

Valjean sat very still. Javert raised a hand to pull at his whiskers, sighed deeply, then shook his head and straightened. “Let us have it out in the open: I was aroused. I was dizzy with need, just from seeing you like that: bound, trembling, helpless. At my mercy. Christ, Valjean, I had my wrist in you! You, a man of such strength – but at that moment, you were at my mercy.” 

Javert stared at him, then closed his eyes for a moment and thrust his hand into his hair in despair before he continued. “Good God! The things I could have done! Inside, you were all softness and vulnerability! Just one wrong move, and I could have – and I was hard. I felt desire, at that. Can you see now why such a thing cannot be? Can you see why I felt like I needed to leave? I thought I could never do you harm, but the truth was, knowing that I could do you harm made me ache with lust for you, like some–”

Valjean reached out before he could think and rested his hand on Javert's shoulder, aching to pull him close and stop that river of words that had suddenly started spilling out along with all the hurt Javert must have hidden these past few days. “Javert,” he said gently and shook his head when Javert's lips parted again. He pressed his fingers to that beloved mouth to silence him, still not quite certain how to heal this thing between them. Was there healing for such a thing? It was no wound, but a scar they had touched upon. They would bear their scars until the end of their lives, that much he knew. Perhaps he had been at fault, to assume that Javert's fears were caused by the events that had made him seek escape in death, when now he saw that these scars went much deeper.

“I trusted you, Javert. I still trust you. That you were aroused by what we did does not change that.” He tried to smile despite the way Javert's eyes slid away in guilt. “No, listen to me now. I gave myself to you like that, knowing you could hurt me, knowing you wouldn't. And you were aroused to have me helpless, and used that power for nothing but giving me pleasure.”

“Yes, well,” Javert muttered through his teeth, and his hand twitched in Valjean's grasp. Finally, he pulled away to run it restlessly through his hair, then pulled on his whiskers with frustration as he searched for words. “It is still true that I had you in my power and was aroused by it. What I chose or did not choose to do with that does not matter. Can you see that at least? The trouble is the fact that it aroused me; the trouble is the fact that between us, it should never be me in that position. I cannot bear it, Valjean, I tell you, I...”

For a moment, Valjean thought that Javert might stand and pace, or leave. Instead, overwhelmed, Javert buried his face in his hands at last, and Valjean allowed him his space, although he ached to pull him into an embrace. 

“You do not trust yourself, that is the trouble,” he said finally, his voice very soft as he studied this man whom he did indeed trust like no other. Javert would never hurt him; the thought alone was unthinkable. “But I trust you enough for both of us. Did you think I expected you to derive no pleasure from that? I...” He stopped for a moment, flushing again when he thought of how he must have looked to Javert. _Had_ it been arousing to him, to see Valjean in his shameful struggle? But no, he remembered the heaviness of lust in Javert's voice as he made him take bead after bead, the admiring touches, remembered how eager Javert had been to see him test the limits of what he could take. “If it gave you pleasure, I am glad. It is what I hoped for, although I know it was a selfish request.”

Javert made a soft sound of disbelieving despair. “Selfish? You – you great ninny, you–”

He stood, at last, to pace and rub at his face again, muttering softly to himself. When he turned to look at Valjean with sudden determination, the look on his face was wild, his whiskers ruffled by his hands. “No, there is nothing selfish about you, Jean Valjean, and that is the problem, do you see? I want you to be selfish from time to time! I shall tie you, and put my mouth between your legs, and will know no greater reward than your pleasure at my actions, if that is what you desire! But I will not – I cannot–”

He swallowed and thrust his hand into his hair again, pulling free another strand of gray hair. “It sickens me to see myself aroused despite the fact that I could harm you. Could kill you.” He looked at his large hand, made an embarrassed sound and flushed brightly as he dropped it. “Oh God Valjean, why did you let me!” he groaned with sudden terror, his earlier speech forgotten. Valjean, who also looked at that hand, and remembered with impossible clarity the way it had stretched him, had forced him to open and open around Javert, shivered with helpless heat.

After a moment, Javert returned to kneel before him and rested his head against his knee with a soft, despairing laugh. “Just do not let me hurt you. I could bear anything for you, but not that. Never that.”

Valjean thought again of that terrible, overwhelming pleasure. Shame rushed through him, worse now than it had been before. It was one thing to feel shame for how he had exposed himself, and shame for how he must have looked to Javert as he had willingly allowed himself to be used and spread in such a way. But how much worse to know how truly selfish he had been, how unsettling it had been for Javert, who had only recently begun to heal from the darkness that had nearly called him into the river?

Resolutely, he pushed away that memory of trembling in Javert's arms, helpless and overwhelmed. Such a thing had no place between them, Javert was right. What man would beg the one he loved for mercy, yet pray that he would be granted none? It was not a good thing for either of them to allow the scars of the past to be opened in such a way.

“Never that,” he agreed softly, and rested his hand on Javert's head, threaded his fingers carefully through the disheveled hair. “I promise, Javert. Let us heal, instead of doing such a thing again.”

#

 

They finally came together again the following night, and it was unbearably sweet to feel Javert against him, at once desperate and strangely shy. 

It was good. There was nothing but the sensation of skin against skin, nightshirts rucked up beneath the blanket so that Javert's prick pressed hotly against his own, Javert's hand on his chest. Their lips touched in open, breathless kisses as the sensation of Javert's hard prick sliding against his own with small, desperate jerks made him moan

“Yes,” Javert whispered, “Please–” and Valjean kissed him again, moaned helplessly when his aching cock smeared wetness all over Javert's stomach. The abrasive drag of his hair against the sensitive tip of his prick seemed enough to nearly drive him out of his mind; every muscle in his body tensed as he thrust against him again and again for more of that ache, and then his climax was drawn from him. He spent himself in spurts of wetness that made Javert bite his lip and groan helplessly; Javert was so hot and hard that Valjean could not help but rub his own softening prick against him for the sheer pleasure of feeling Javert's arousal, and then Javert too choked back a groan as he spent himself between them.

They fell asleep together, and woke together, and returned to sharing meals and books and glasses of wine, and Valjean could have been perfectly happy to know himself loved and wanted, and better, to have someone to lavish his affection on and see warmth fill Javert's face whenever his eyes came to rest on him.

It should have been easy to be content now, but it was not. Secrets once shared could not be forgotten; at times, Valjean would flush suddenly, inexplicably, when Javert held out a glass of wine for him, and his gaze slid to wonder at the size of Javert's hand, and he remembered that he had been breached by the entirety of it, had felt that beloved hand slide and twist within him as if to remind the both of them that all he was, body and soul, belonged to this man he loved. He remembered, too, Javert's earlier confessions, both the despair and the eagerness with which he had knelt for him, the dreams he had admitted to, those fanciful thoughts of the powerful men he had known.

How strange to think back to that time, to that man he had never truly been, and hear of how Javert, whom he thought a menacing shadow watching from afar, must have used what little interaction they had to turn it into strange dreams under the cover of night, casting Madeleine as yet another man in that line of superiors which Javert had imagined himself servicing in ways more than his duty demanded!

It was perhaps the strangest revelation still, to know that Javert, the only one in Montreuil to see him for whom he had truly been, had never seen him at all in other ways. How strange to think of how Javert had knelt before him with his cock in his mouth, so eager for degradation that he would rather choke himself on his prick than admit that he could go no further – and to then think of his quiet office in Montreuil where he shut himself away from the bustle of the factory and the gossip of the town. To think that Javert of all people had dreamed of such a thing happening in that place, when Valjean had prayed every day to be spared the inspector's cold, suspicious eyes!

Ah, but Javert's eyes had not been cold when he had knelt before him. No, and there had been no suspicion or fear when he had bent Javert over his desk to indulge that unreal fantasy of a superior chastising him...

Valjean shifted and carefully laid down his pen before he could spill ink on the letter he had intended to answer this morning. 

A strange heat had arisen at those thoughts. The image of Javert bent over his desk, trousers at his ankles, his bottom bare to be chastised like a child should have been an image of hilarity, and it was – it was too absurd, even as a memory, to remember that event and not flush and bite back a smile of horrified amusement. What had they been thinking? He could not justify it even to himself; certainly two men of their age and their experience ought not allow themselves to be turned into a mockery by their desires, and yet...

And yet, even now, when the thought of Javert imagining him act the role of stern superior equally horrified and amused him, he could not help but feel the gentle warmth of arousal curl tentatively within him at the memory of the sounds Javert had made. Somehow, an event that at first had made him bite his lip to hold back his laughter had been transformed into something that was still nonsensical, and yet had given him great pleasure as well. There was a strange delight in feeling Javert shift and harden and tremble before him, to see him at last overwhelmed by pleasure in such a way that he forgot to be ashamed of the strange dreams his mind had tormented him with for decades.

Valjean still could not help but feel shame for indulging such a thing – to be the one to strike Javert! And yet – to be the one to make Javert moan, to be the one to make those cold eyes turn soft and feel that tense body relax at last beneath his touch to reveal his secrets and dreams, and to be the one to give Javert what no one else ever had! To be the one to give him pleasure until he was boneless and sated, the one who carried all of his secrets in his heart! That was powerful: to have this and keep it safe, to only ever make use of what he had been entrusted with to give pleasure and happiness, instead of using what he knew to mock, or destroy, as any other man would certainly have done.

He looked up at the slight creak of the door as it was pushed open. There stood Javert in his shirtsleeves, and the view sent a wave of helpless warmth through Valjean. How strange, how beautiful this unexpected blessing was that God had seen fit to give them near the end of their lives!

He smiled at Javert – but Javert swallowed, and did not return his smile, and instead gave him a wide-eyed, helpless look. Javert's throat worked for a moment, and Valjean, who watched him with the beginnings of confusion, realized suddenly that he had not seen Javert look so lost in desire since he had found him once more near the Seine. All their lovemaking since had been gentle, carefully free of the weight of what they had confessed to each other.

Now, to see the strength of emotion that affected Javert at nothing but the sight of him seated at his desk, already clad in a fine, maroon waistcoat and black coat for the visit to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire he had planned after he had answered his letters, now he felt heat rise up within him as well, and that ever-present yearning to be the one responsible for Javert's happiness, to give Javert what he had confessed of dreaming about.

“Javert,” he said, warmth in his voice, and then straightened, breathless, his throat tight, not quite certain whether he could be what Javert hoped for. Chances were that Javert would laugh at him. Chances were that he himself would break into horrified laughter at this travesty – but Javert still looked at him with that helpless, stunned need, so that suddenly he wondered if Javert had ever looked that way at the men he had listed, and then chided himself with dismay at this strange jealousy.

“Javert. Please. Come here. I was wondering if I could ask for your help with one last thing.” He tried to keep his voice calm – ah, it had been so long since he had been forced to pretend that he was a man used to wielding power! It had never come easily to him; always it had been easier to hide in his office, and yet there had been occasions that called for his interaction with officials. It was hard to pull up that memory after so many years, but seeing the shudder run through Javert at his purposely distant demeanor made him suppress the slightly horrified smile that even now threatened to break free. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and looked up at Javert with what he hoped Javert would not interpret as displeasure at his presence. 

“I would be happy to assist,” Javert said, his eyes still wide and questioning, and Valjean allowed himself a thin smile.

“Good man,” he said, and then nearly broke into horrified laughter after all. Was that how Javert would like him to act? Was that how that superior he had mentioned would have acted? What a farce this was! But Javert's face had flushed, and his eyes kept sliding away from his face only to return quickly with that disbelieving hunger in them. Perhaps Javert would not laugh at this nonsense after all. Perhaps, he could pretend enough to give Javert a moment of joy, and that would harm neither of them. If he could keep from laughing at the ridiculous lines that sprung up in his head.

“There was a lot to do today. It is all quite tiring business,” he said, and waved derisively at the stash of opened letters and cards. Certainly, now Javert would laugh. Certainly, that gesture had been too grandiose; this was too ridiculous to arouse anything but hilarity in Javert...

Javert exhaled shakily, then licked his lips, his eyes still dark, slipping at last from Valjean's face to his lap. “Ah, if... if there is anything I can do to help you rest for a moment from your work, Monsieur,” he offered, his questioning eyes daring to meet Valjean's just for the time of a heartbeat before they skidded away again, and Javert's flush deepened. Valjean still wanted to laugh; Javert's hand twitched, then was pressed to his thigh, and Javert stood silent and still, awaiting his answer without laughter.

“Why don't you kneel down, Javert,” Valjean murmured, hardly able to believe that these words came from his mouth, that Javert was not laughing at him, that Javert shuddered instead and ceased breathing for a moment. “The mark of a good subordinate is enthusiasm for fulfilling his superior's needs, is it not?”

Javert went to his knees without protest, and Valjean pushed his chair back just far enough that Javert could come forward to rest between his knees, half hidden by the desk.

Good God, but they were ridiculous, Valjean thought, wanting to shake his head when he thought once more of that small office in Montreuil that had never seen such a scene take place, and then Javert rested a hand on his knee, breathed very evenly, and said, “By your leave, Monsieur,” and began to open Valjean's trousers.

It was in that moment that it ceased being ridiculous. Javert's fingers trembled against him, and that was all it took. To feel the effect this farce had on Javert, to know that despite his misgivings and fears, this was good for Javert, that it pleased Javert enough to make him tremble and look up at him with that stunned, wide-eyed look, as if arousal had overwhelmed all thought, and he was helpless at the magnitude of it – that was more intoxicating than wine. It heated his own blood, and it was this that made him harden more than the gentle, careful touch of Javert's fingers that freed him reverently from his trousers. And when he made a chiding sound, his voice already thick with his own arousal, and said, “Ah, not your hands, Javert,” then that was solely for the pleasure of seeing Javert flush again and shiver with greater need, as if chastisement in this was as good – or even better – to him than caresses or loving words.

Javert's lips were warm and soft as they slid over him. Javert's hands rested respectfully against his thighs as he lowered his head, and Valjean felt himself slide slowly over his tongue, sheathed in heat and softness. 

His fingers trembled; he itched to rest his hands on Javert's hand, to thread his fingers through his hair, unwind that ribbon and feel strands spill free against his thighs – but certainly that was not what Javert dreamed off, that was not what that hypothetical superior would use him for.

“Very good, Javert,” he said thickly, and then reached out and took hold of his pen again, his hand trembling so that he could not even make out the nonsensical words he began to jut down. Beneath the desk, he was still buried in eager heat. Javert's mouth was hot and wet and sucked on him with slow enjoyment, so that Valjean found himself biting his lip to hold back the groans of pleasure that had no place in this scenario. 

Javert moaned quietly around him, his tongue flat against his cock, trying to please as much as he could. His head moved slowly up and down, allowing him to nearly slip out before he sucked him back into his mouth in a sweet, patient slide that sent tendrils of fire curling up along his spine. For as long as he could, Valjean tried to hold out as he listened to the soft, wet sounds of Javert's mouth, imagined him focused on his task with calm concentration. Somehow, the act was made even more vulgar by the way Javert pretended that it was but a duty performed by an inferior, that this act was no different than ordering Javert to fetch him his letters, that Javert was pleased to know himself used in such a way, as though he had no right to object even to an order as dubious as this. 

At last, Valjean gave up all pretense of writing and leaned back in his chair. From that position, he could watch how Javert's mouth, wide and soft and so very pleasing, worked itself further down his cock, eager to take all of him. To watch was almost too much; he looked obscenely huge against the wide spread of Javert's swollen lips. Javert's eyes were dazed and dark as he looked up at him, and now Valjean could no longer resist, rested a hand against his cheek and nearly moaned himself at the sensation of his cock slowly moving inside that tempting heat. A groan escaped from somewhere deep in Javert's chest, and he forced himself further down; some of his spit was trailing down his chin already, and yet he swallowed with such desperate eagerness to please that Valjean felt himself brush the back of his throat, and heard Javert choke around him, and still suck harder before he drew back with a wet sound of despair. 

“Javert,” he said, pretending disappointment as he forced himself to frown at Javert who looked up at him in mute despondency, his lips very swollen and red and his chin wet with his own saliva. Valjean drew his thumb along Javert's cheek, used just enough pressure to feel the heaviness of his cock within stretch the mouth that had opened so eagerly for him. “Certainly you can do better. Just a little more now.”

Javert flushed with mortification at his chastisement, and Valjean wondered again with stunned disbelief at how such a thing could affect Javert so, of how Javert wanted this – the cold threat of discipline, rather than the warmth of the love he was so happy to bestow upon him. But Javert's eyes still looked up at him with dazed, despairing need, and then he sucked him back deep into his mouth, and Valjean leaned back in his chair. In fascination, he watched as Javert forced himself down on him again, sucking with filthy, wet sounds as his mouth was stretched open wide, so wide that Valjean's fingers had to touch to reassure himself that this was real. Valjean's breathing was very heavy, and his fingers trembled slightly as he traced those lips stretched open impossibly wide, brushed the hot, hard skin of his prick sliding inside, deeper and deeper until Javert choked around him again, and looked up in despair. Valjean stroked along his cheek again with the lightest touch, and said with kindness that seemed too cruel, and yet was needed, “Come now, Javert. More. Do not disappoint me,” and Javert did the impossible, swallowed more of him while Valjean trembled and nearly could not bear the strength of that dazed, helpless ecstasy in Javert's eyes. 

He drew back when he began to tense with approaching release, although every fiber of his being wanted to thrust himself down Javert's throat. Instead, as he shuddered and began to spill himself onto Javert's tongue, he clenched his hand around his chin. “Don't swallow,” he managed to force out while he suffered through the shocks of his release, and Javert, obedient to the last, shivered and moaned around him and yet did not move as he released spurt after spurt of his spend onto his tongue.

Then, at last, it was done, and he gave himself a moment to recover, gently stroking Javert's cheek while he began to soften in his mouth.

“Good, Javert,” he said, and his words produced a shudder of exquisite need. “Good. Don't swallow,” he warned again when he slipped free from between his lips at last. A long string of his come and Javert's saliva hung glistening from Javert's lips, and he took hold of his softening, wet prick and wiped it clean against his chin. Javert shivered again, but did not make a sound, and Valjean tucked himself away at last with a sigh.

“Good,” he murmured again, then, unable to resist, reached out for Javert once more, drew his fingers over his face, touching the roughness of his whiskers, the trails of glistening wetness. Javert still looked up at him, stunned and obedient as he sat still, and Valjean could not help but shiver as he imagined that beloved mouth still full of his come, Javert content to keep the taste on his tongue for no other reason save that he had asked it – and he had asked for no other reason save that he knew that Javert liked to be commanded. Such a strange thing it was they had between them. Such an impossible thing. It should be reason for hilarity. It should, perhaps, be reason for pain, given the years that were behind them. But there was no pain in this thing so far removed from the reality of the small town Valjean remembered that he still could not quite understand how Javert had turned it into such a twisted vision of something they had never had.

And yet, despite the strangeness, despite the many, many reason for why this should not be, it was not so bad to indulge Javert. All hilarity had fled in that moment when Javert's eyes turned dark with arousal, when he turned this rigid, correct man into stunned helplessness with nothing more than one word said with gentle firmness. What did it matter that authority had never come easily to him, when his laughable attempts at pretension where enough to cause such passion in Javert?

He pressed a finger to those swollen, wet lips, felt their softness, and shivered again at the memory of how those lips had swallowed him down so eagerly, as if Javert had indeed dreamed of swallowing his superior's cock for long years. Again a pang of jealousy reared up: who were those men whom Javert had mentioned? But Javert's lips were very soft and warm, and it was hard to think when Javert sat before him, clad in his starched shirt, his hair tightly pulled back, as neat and orderly as a man could be in his shirtsleeves – and his mouth still full of his warm come, keeping the thick, salty spend on his tongue as he looked up at Valjean with helpless devotion.

No. Whoever those men had been, they had never made Javert look at them with that expression, Valjean thought, feeling shaky all of a sudden as he imagined a life bereft of Javert's love, a life bereft of all occasions to give this man happiness, and pleasure. What would life be without this gift? Even after the sun of his life had moved to shine her gentle light on a different garden, he would never be left alone in the darkness, as long as Javert was there by his side.

Slowly, he pushed two of his fingers into Javert's mouth. His mouth was hot, and very wet; as he stroked along his tongue with the pads of his fingers, Javert moaned around him, and he felt the stickiness of his release that filled Javert's mouth. Ah, good God, it was filthy to ask such a thing of the man! And yet Javert's eyes were fever-bright, staring up at him with such devotion and need that he could not make himself stop. Instead, he slid his fingers in deeper and imagined how his cock had rested there just moments ago, so heavy and thick that Javert had struggled to breathe around it, and still had strained for more. He pressed down on his tongue, and Javert made a thick, helpless sound as his lips parted and some of his spend and the saliva that had gathered in his mouth dribbled down his chin. Javert flushed brightly, but did not move; Valjean stroked over his tongue, slowly moving back and forth as if it were still his cock thrusting into that wet heat, and Javert made another sound of helpless despair and shuddered, eyes dark and dazed as more and more of Valjean's come dripped out of his mouth.

It was undignified, and had he not been so aroused still by the need in Javert's eyes, he would have felt guilt at shaming him so. Instead, he watched as long strings of his spend and Javert's saliva dribbled from his mouth, slid down Javert's wet chin, dripped at last onto the spotless, perfectly starched shirt. Still he watched, and kept sliding his fingers in and out of that welcoming mouth, until the front of Javert's shirt was wet with it, and there were humiliated tears in the corners of Javert's eyes. Even then Javert did not protest, but instead tried to suck messily on the fingers that spread his mouth open for the shameful display. 

Heat rolled through Valjean anew; beneath the layers of fine clothes, his skin was damp with sweat. At last, he drew back his fingers, looked at Javert who still knelt, perfectly calm and obedient save for the fact that his lips were red and wet, and his chin and shirt were stained obscenely with drool and come. “You may swallow now,” Valjean said, managing to remain composed even when Javert's throat moved as he swallowed again and again, his eyes still gleaming with unshed tears that did not fall as he looked up at Valjean with something that was very nearly shame.

Enough of the games now, Valjean thought, enough of – whatever this was, certainly this had to be enough even for Javert! He had had his fill of shame; let there be pleasure now, let them part with Javert's pleasure, and remember that, even after the display he had made of him... “Stand,” he said, then, gesturing when Javert rose, “Stand, open your trousers, let me see you – ah, Christ!”

He could not hold back the blasphemy, not when Javert gathered himself to rise and stand before him, his fingers trembling just as much as his knees when he struggled to open his stained trousers. For a moment, Valjean thought that Javert's drool must have dripped down to stain the fabric, certainly it was impossible that – and then Javert's trousers fell open, and there, amidst the graying curls lay nestled his prick, soft and curling against his balls in damp misery.

“Good God, Javert, did you– Ah!” he said, suddenly remembering Javert's fantasy, and reached out to wrap his fingers gingerly around that soft, wet cock, and watched with amazement how Javert allowed this thing too, breathing heavily as he lowered his eyes in shame.

“Well, Javert, what do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded, wondering now how long such a thing could be drawn out, when this would turn from pleasure to true embarrassment for Javert. Was he taking this too far? Should he not rather have taken Javert's release for the end of this farce between them? And yet – and yet, Javert had come untouched, had spent himself from nothing but the chance to kneel before him and suffer the shame of his need. 

He stroked the pad of his thumb along the shaft, up to the sensitive, wet tip; Javert shuddered at the stimulation as he scooped up some of his cooling spend. 

“My apologies, Monsieur. It shall not happen again,” Javert said, his voice hoarse. He licked his swollen lips, and then leaned forward, his hand very gentle on Valjean's arm – the touch was respectful, the light, distant touch of a subordinate, and yet there was nothing distant in the way Javert kissed his spend from his fingers, licked with careful precision the space between, his lips very warm and very soft. 

When he was done, Valjean had to swallow before he could speak. He allowed himself a glance at Javert's wet prick again, his spend sticking to the curls of his hair that was graying even there, imagined Javert's discomfort of having to tuck himself into his stained trousers again. Perhaps it was time for a bath, he thought. Perhaps – he would have to change into a different shirt now himself. Javert's mouth had been so neat and eager that his trousers were unstained, but he could feel his shirt cling to him, uncomfortably damp from sweat. Perhaps he had time enough to assist Javert in cleaning himself, and wash this strange tension off the both of them with the familiar touch of warm water and soap and gentle words instead of this pretense, as much as Javert had wanted this.

“Go on then, clean yourself,” he said, and watched as Javert fastened his damp trousers without a sign of discomfort, warmed by the sudden surge of renewed affection for this man who did not even understand himself. Javert was a never-ending mystery – but perhaps, this thing between them was a puzzle that could be solved with patience and pleasure, instead of Javert's despairing shame. “You are dismissed. And do better next time.”

Javert shivered again, and this time, once Javert had turned away, he allowed himself a wondering smile at the way chastisement was indulgence for this man who so rarely allowed himself true indulgence otherwise.

 

#

When he woke the next morning, pleasantly warm and relaxed, Javert was still asleep next to him as the first rays of sunlight began to fill the room with a pale, rosy light. He turned, and for a long moment watched Javert sleep. How strange to want _this_ man in his bed. How strange to learn how to give himself in love so late in his life. How strange to try and accept what pleasure Javert so desperately wanted to bestowed on him...

They had both come to this so late – perhaps it was no wonder that they both struggled with this, that at times desire became a frightening thing, and something that twisted and turned in their hands until for an outsider, it must seem pain or derision instead of deep affection. He still could not think of the moments he had spent breathless and bound and filled by Javert in impossible ways with anything but stunned gratitude. There was no reason for Javert's disquiet, save, he thought, save that old problem that Javert did not trust himself around him, that deep in his heart he still saw Valjean as a saint, and himself as a sinner, when the truth was that they had both sinned, and had both been granted a chance at redemption. 

Javert might not trust himself, but Valjean did. He had trusted Javert with his heart, and with his soul; to trust him with his body was easy and did not require thought or deliberation. But how to teach such a thing to one who would deliberately lower himself and derive pleasure from it, yet balk at another's loving surrender?

He ached to reach out and rest his hand against that cheek, to watch Javert wake and open his eyes, and see that once so fearsome face fill with warmth at his presence. Instead, he drew down the blanket, revealed Javert to his gaze, and gently pulled up the nightshirt. Javert was soft, his prick curled against his thigh, and Valjean leaned down and drew him into his mouth with a sigh of pleasure at the taste and texture of him on his tongue. Javert groaned; his fingers twitched against his thigh, and Valjean smiled around him and sucked gently, watching Javert, half-asleep and unguarded, slowly writhe and make soft, helpless sounds of need. 

Doing this for Javert was always sweet. It was twice as sweet to have Javert so unusually responsive, to hear him moan and gasp as Valjean repeatedly teased at the small opening with his tongue. When Javert opened his eyes at last with a sound of overwhelmed pleasure, he looked as dazed as he had been the day before, as though he was not quite certain whether this was still a dream.

Valjean hummed with contentment and sucked slowly, lapping at every drop that welled up. A quiet pride filled him at the way Javert began to fill his mouth, so that a moan was dragged from him as well when Javert began to slowly thrust into his mouth at last. He shivered at how Javert's prick rubbed over his tongue, then tightened his lips around him, and when Javert groaned his name and slid a hand into his hair, looked up at him with pleased satisfaction.

“Valjean – what–” Javert's voice was hoarse with sleep. Even as he rubbed at his face in sleepy, aroused confusion, his cock throbbed on Valjean's tongue and leaked more of the salty fluid. Valjean made another soft sound of approval, then pulled back only to slide down as slowly as he could. Javert's eyes fell shut, and the hand in his hair tightened nearly to the point of pain, so that he shivered with growing arousal himself at the way the hand kept him in place as Javert breathlessly bucked into his mouth.

Valjean choked a little, but this was not so bad; he thought he could do this, could take all of Javert if he went slowly – could take all of Javert if Javert chose to fuck his mouth, a shameful voice in his mind supplied, could prove himself and allow Javert to bury himself down his throat until he could feel those heavy balls throb against his lips as Javert found his release – and then Javert drew back and his cock slipped from his mouth, fully engorged and red and very wet with Valjean's spit. Valjean coughed, blushed, then wiped at the spit that dripped from his lips, aching already to lean down for more of this.

“Valjean!” Javert said with a groan, one shaking hand against Valjean's shoulder now as if to ward him off, when Valjean could still see his prick curve wet and hard against his stomach, a long string of clear liquid dripping from it as Javert stared at him from wide, dazed eyes. “Ah, Valjean, what... don't, don't do that...”

Valjean bit back a groan of his own as he tried to resist the urge to press his own hand hard against the ache between his legs. “Don't do what?” he asked and tried to lean down again, his mouth aching for the heaviness of Javert's prick on his tongue – but Javert shuddered and grunted, and his hand at his shoulder kept pushing him away.

Valjean relented and straightened. There was a frown on his face as he turned to look at Javert. His own prick still ached with neglected need, and though Valjean was more than happy to keep neglecting that desire for a while yet to fully concentrate on the pleasure of Javert coming undone in his mouth, it was still an ever-present ache that made it difficult to hold back when all he wanted was his mouth on Javert, or Javert's hand on him, that slow, sweet sharing of pleasure that he had never known before.

“Don't – Valjean!” Javert's voice was sharp now, so that Valjean flinched and looked at him in alarm. A sudden fear rose within him – had he overstepped himself? Had he failed to notice a sign to show that affection which had always been welcome before was no longer wanted now? Were these the late repercussions of his selfishness? Maybe he had in truth pressed Javert to do a thing he abhorred when he had allowed Javert to tie and use him. Was this then what he had truly wrought; would Javert no longer desire simple affection and companionship, shared nights and afternoons in the library? Would Javert force him back now, and search out a bedroom of his own in the future, and–

“Valjean,” Javert said again, and his voice was gentler now. He breathed heavily, then raised a hand to rub at his face. “Ah, God, Valjean, what are you – don't do that, don't demean yourself in such a way; Christ, to wake to such a sight, I – it is not right, do you hear me? The way you look...”

“How do I look?” Valjean asked very softly, heeding Javert's warning at last, and remaining close, but without touching him.

Javert buried his face in his hands. “Forgive me. It is not you, don't you see that? But I look at you like that; Christ, your mouth, it... Don't. Don't lower yourself so, Valjean. You are better than that; I cannot bear it to see you so, I–”

“You cannot bear it to see me give you pleasure, as a gift, when yesterday, you did the same for me?” Valjean would have smiled at the tragedy of this man, who was a puzzle he was starting to despair of ever solving. Perhaps the truth was that there was but one solution for the Gordian Knot of Javert – but if that was so, he lacked both sword and precision. 

“You told me once that I annoy you, but in truth, Javert, it is you who are infuriating.” He smiled to weaken the impact of his words, although he watched Javert with a new solemnity now. Perhaps these scars ran deeper than he thought. Perhaps they would never cease to hurt. And yet, would it not be worth the pain to have this happiness, even if it came at the price of wounds being torn open every now and then? 

“It is demeaning, to put my mouth on you, to make you reward me with such sounds of pleasure? Then what you are truly saying is that I forced you to demean yourself yesterday. That I shamed you. That I did in truth use you in the way a superior of no worth and no morals would force a subordinate to serve, who has no choice. That is what you say to me, Javert.”

Javert was stunned; for a moment, his throat worked, then he shook his hand, pulled in frustration at his hair, his other hand still trembling against Valjean's shoulder as though he were no longer certain whether to pull him closer or push him away. 

“Do not say such a thing to me! You, shaming me, you – _Jean Valjean_!” he said, and laughed in helpless defeat, and Valjean wondered once more what meaning that name held for him. It was the name of the wretch who had labored for 19 long years in the galleys, who had taken that coin from Petit Gervais, who had stolen from the Bishop – and from Javert's lips, that name fell with the same adoration that was reserved for the name of saints uttered in prayer, and Valjean almost could not recognize himself in it anymore. 

“You frustrate me, Javert.” His smile widened a little; perhaps he should not be amused by Javert's inability to express himself, but then, had he not indulged Javert yesterday in the most laughable way? And he had done all of that for him without laughter, but with affection, because Javert's pleasure was reward enough. “No, no; no more protests now.” He ached to lean back down and suck that prick into his mouth once more, close his eyes to concentrate on nothing but the sensation of Javert hard and heavy on his tongue, and the sounds he made when Valjean did something especially pleasing. “Either it is demeaning for the both of us, or pleasurable for the both of us. I cherish discussion with you, Javert, but come now, this takes no logic or schoolmaster to solve.”

He hesitated a moment, then, remembering how well Javert had liked it to be told what to do the previous day, stretched himself out along his side once more, and, somewhat awkwardly, pulled up his own nightshirt until it was bunched around his stomach, and his own prick bared to Javert's face. He blushed a little with incongruous shyness. He was very hard, and from nothing but the pleasure of Javert in his mouth, and now Javert's face was very close to where his cock rested warm and heavy against his thigh. 

“I recall no arguments yesterday, so if that is what it takes to buy your silence, would you kindly put your mouth back on me again?” Good God! His blush deepened; was it truly he who was saying such ridiculous things? And certainly now was when Javert would leave; now was when he would laugh, or scoff, or grow angry at this ridiculous demand–

Javert's mouth was hot and sweet around him, stealing both breath and thought from him as it enveloped him in pleasure. Heat washed through his body, burned through his veins, and it took a long moment until he remembered what he had set out to do, and bent his own head to its task. When he sucked Javert back into his mouth, he could feel Javert stop in his movements for a while, shuddering out a moan around his aching cock. Ah, that was sweet, too, to feel the consequence of his touch in such an way, to give pleasure and receive pleasure in return, and give yet more pleasure until they were lost in a spiraling crescendo of heat and breathless ecstasy.

It was messy. It was unskilled. He had done this for Javert enough to find out and file away precious secrets of how to draw moans of pleasure from him, how to allow that prick to slide over his tongue and play at the slit and take it deeper. Now, pleasure thrummed through the muscles of his stomach, hardened his sinews and made him want to buck up into Javert's mouth, who sucked on him with a quiet, concentrated determination that made him draw back to pant around Javert's cock. His lips were wet with spit; some of it slid down his chin so that he flushed with new embarrassment and thought of how Javert had looked the day before.

Javert moaned around him again, and he nearly choked in return, suddenly no longer certain whether this had been a good idea. This was an entirely new torment: to feel too much pleasure to concentrate on pleasing Javert! And yet, the crown of Javert's prick still rested on his tongue, and he tongued at the slit until new slickness welled up, worried at it with the tip of his tongue as though he were trying to force his way inside until it was Javert who trembled and moaned thickly, brokenly around him, that sweet mouth no longer sucking on him as Javert was overwhelmed by pleasure.

Yes, Valjean, thought, yes, this, _beautiful_ , he would have said had he been able to talk, and then his thoughts scattered away again and he sucked Javert deep into his mouth, as deep as he could, forced himself not to choke around him but keep his mouth on him even as Javert shuddered and jerked in his mouth and spent himself, filling Valjean's mouth with the thick fluids of his release.

Valjean kept him in his mouth until he was finished, tongued that small, sensitive opening again just to feel Javert twitch with a soft, broken sound of pleasure that vibrated around his own cock. At last, he drew back regretfully, and Javert was still making beautiful, breathless sounds as he returned to sucking on his cock. It felt like desperation now rather than the earlier calm focus. The release that had Javert trembling still also made him slow down, but it was a messy, breathless exhaustion that made him gasp with soft, wet moans around Valjean's cock, made him cling to him with trembling fingers as he sucked, and licked, and still shuddered through the tremors of his own release.

Valjean rested a hand on Javert's thigh and swallowed the spend on his tongue. When Javert's lips drew his climax from him at last, he muffled his moan against sweaty skin. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest; for a long moment, he could not breathe as his body arched into Javert's mouth, and then, after long heartbeats, when he had spent himself and was empty and drained and exhausted, Javert released him, cleaned his saliva and come from his prick with lingering kisses and then drew back, still breathing so hard that it almost drowned out the sound of Valjean's own, quick pulse in his ears.

At last, when his sweat began to cool on his skin, he pushed his nightshirt down somewhat bashfully at the realization that his damp, soft prick was still in Javert's face, and then sat up, and found Javert looking as stunned and speechless as he had the day before. A successful experiment, Valjean thought, feeling strangely shy all of a sudden. He gently kissed Javert to push away that lingering insecurity. Perhaps it was indeed one they could not repeat too often, for he was not certain whether a body was made to withstand such pleasure. But Javert's mouth opened willingly beneath his own, and they kissed, and he made Javert taste the spend that was still on his tongue while Javert made an overwhelmed, soft sound and clung to him.

“You fool,” he said softly when he drew away, “ah, you fool, you ninny, one thing is as demeaning as the other, and only if you make it so. Do you see?”

“Valjean, don't... Don't do that again. Ah, it was torture!” Javert's breath still escaped in little gasps, and he licked at his wet lips, and then he moved forward, his eyes still dark and overwhelmed. With a groan he licked at Valjean's mouth before his tongue slid inside. It drew another moan from Valjean; Javert's tongue was so hot, and so wet, and he remembered again that mouth opening willingly to take his cock inside.

He leaned his brow against Javert's when they parted at last. He was too breathless to speak for a long moment; he kept his eyes closed, and brushed his fingers through the coarse hair of Javert's whiskers, and at last pressed his fingers to his lips. “No more torture than knowing that you think it is demeaning to give you pleasure. No more of that. No more, Javert. I swear it to you now: I will never let you hurt me. You will never have to fear that again. But you will take pleasure if you want to give it, and you will remember that we are both sinners.”

Javert shuddered. His fingers moved slowly through Valjean's hair, pressed against his skull in a gentle massage that made him want to sigh and surrender to his embrace. He desired nothing more than to allow Javert's touch to soothe away all fears the two cold, empty nights had left in his heart.

“When you say these things,” Javert said very softly, “I wonder if you know me at all.”

Valjean wanted to smile with quiet despair. “When you look at me as though I am a saint despoiled by your touch, then I wonder if you know me at all,” he said, and sighed when Javert's hands stilled for a moment. At last, he opened his eyes, and was met by a reluctant smile on Javert's lips. 

“Maybe the truth is that we still do not know each other as well as we should. After all these years...”

“But we have time to learn, certainly? We are old enough to have learned patience with each other?” At Valjean's words, Javert cupped a hand against his cheek. There was still a slight hesitancy to his touch, as if, despite everything they had shared, _touch_ was still a marvel to him. Valjean felt new warmth spread through him, for he had never thought to know such a thing himself. 

“We are old enough to be patient with each other,” Javert said slowly, and then the smile disappeared, and he exhaled a shaky breath. “Let us not try _that_ again, not ever. I am yours in all ways. God knows I would sell my soul if it would bring you happiness. But I think I cannot do that again, and I will beg you for this one thing: do not ever let me hurt you. Do not ever let me do that again. I can bear anything for you, but, I was rightly sick with myself, and I cannot do it again.”

Valjean took a deep breath. He raised his own hand to rest it on Javert's, met his eyes, saw the pain and the worry in them, and felt a sudden stab of regret. Javert had no reason to feel guilt or shame – but all the same, what did it matter when in the end, what they had done had frightened Javert so much that he had been driven to stand above the waters of the Seine again, trembling and wide-eyed like a spooked horse?

“I promise,” he said, and put away regret for that one, lost moment of overwhelmed surrender. No matter what pleasure he had felt, it was not worth it if it was bought at the price of Javert's discomfort. “I promise. I will not ask it of you again. And you will not talk of such things again, when I take as much pleasure in giving you pleasure as you do!”

Javert hesitated, and then he nodded, and pressed Valjean's hand in loving reassurance. There was still reluctance in his eyes, and Valjean thought that it would take him more to overcome what guilt and fear tugged at Javert's heart – and yet, all that mattered was that they were both here, where they belonged, and where, God willing, they would always return.


End file.
